


And So We Burned

by thepipsqueaks



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Multi, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepipsqueaks/pseuds/thepipsqueaks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisition has fallen into rumor and legend. The Cult of the Herald challenges the Chantry and Orlais lingers on the brink of a new war. Seeking to make her own way in the world, a young woman named Lena takes up the mantle of the Red Jenny in Val Royeaux and pledges herself to the growing elven rebellion. Her games bring her deep into a plot to reclaim the power of the Herald.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

9:68

On nights like these, even with her body aching for sleep, Lena couldn’t help but lay, wide awake, and wonder. The air was heavy with the scent of summer, smelling warm, humid, and accented with the pollen of the trees. It filled her family’s cart like yet another thick layer of cloth, and Lena had spent enough nights like this, tucked in with the cargo, sweaty and sore, to know that she wouldn’t find any rest. She nuzzled deeper into the pile of goods that surrounded her, blankets and rugs dyed by her parents, and listened to the tune that her brother, Wiscotte, whistled as he drove the cart, a thin melody that she could just barely make out over the steady rumbling of the cart’s wheels.

Lena tried to still her mind, but her thoughts crept into familiar places. She pictured the merchants that awaited them in the next village, the way her brother would haggle, the way her arms would scratch against the bolts of fabric as she unloaded each order. She could see it all so clearly, even feel it, because that was what always happened when they traveled. Ever since she came of age, Lena had spent every day of every snowless month with Wiscotte living this life. It was the curse of the Du Paraquettes, according to her father - and now she could see him, his pale skin burnt red from the sun, and hear him, groaning that his forefathers feasted in the halls of the Winter Palace while he was doomed to pluck bugs from the branches of their orchard.

She reached up and tugged some of the cloth over her, trying to block out the image. Even in the darkness, Lena thought she could still see it’s bright red hue, and part of her felt a stirring of pride at her mother’s work. The Du Paraquettes may be cursed, but her mother’s family was gifted, turning the shells of bugs into beautiful art that, yes, maybe even found it’s way to the Winter Palace. Her fingers grazed against the purple ribbon tied in her heavy braid, the only piece of her mother’s work that she didn’t have to sell before returning home, and, finally, began to drift away into more pleasant thoughts. 

Suddenly, a sharp whinny, almost as loud as a scream, cut through the night and the cart lurched to a stop. Lena’s breath caught in her lungs and she bolted upright, every sore muscle now tense as a bow’s string. She heard the scrapping of Wiscotte’s shoes as he climbed down, and his calm tone as he tried to soothe their mare. Lena had already started to reach down for the daggers she had stored by her feet, but she hesitated to listen. Maybe it was nothing, an unseen hole or fennac racing by, spooking the old horse?

“Don’t move, shemlen,” said a strange voice. Lena hadn’t heard any footsteps and yet the stranger sounded like he was just outside the cart. She turned her head to listen. A Dalish raid? Here? On a peasant’s cart?

She heard Wiscotte begin to reply, but then he cried out. A horrible crack, then a thud - the sound of it chilled Lena’s whole body like it was drenched in ice. Everything was happening so fast, too fast, and Lena’s hands shook, frozen inches above her sheathed daggers. 

“Take care, Arlen,” said a second voice. “The shem is no good with a busted skull.”

“He’s fine,” answered the first. “Help me load him into the cart.”

Quickly, her mind reeling, Lena laid back down and carefully burrowed under the thick blankets. She had hidden from chores and hurt lovers in her family’s goods before; she could never remember any of the Chant but she prayed that Andraste would take pity on her and the strategy might work for her now. 

-

For ages it seemed, Lena didn’t dare to move or breathe. She listened as the Dalish drove the cart, soon leaving the road to bump along the hills into the forest. Though Wiscotte hardly stirred, it thawed away all the horror from her body to know that he was alive. She couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t looking out for her - just three days ago, when they left their home, he promised that they would take a detour to Val Royeaux to buy her a decent hunting bow. They weren’t allowed much, but he would give her something to call her own and he’d stand up to their father about it when the time came for that. Lena couldn’t wait for a chance to strike back against his attackers and get them both out of this mess.

Finally, the ride came to a stop, and the Dalish pulled Wiscotte from the cart. They talked about the long day, their hunger, nothing of consequence, until Lena couldn’t make out their voices. She dared to hope that they wouldn’t spare a second glance at the cart and, slowly, she started to creep out from her hiding place.

In one hand, she clutched her dagger so tightly that it ached her knuckles. It was a cheap thing, mostly used to prep game while they traveled, but Lena had to trust that it was sharp enough to cut her way to her brother if it came to that. She crawled to the edge of the cart and gently nudged a corner of the canvas aside. The cart had been left in a clearing, lit up with light from a fire that must’ve been built near their mare. It was quiet, free from the sounds and smells of a camp, so the rest of the clan must be deeper in the forest - Lena thanked the Maker for that.

Carefully, she started to climb out of the cart, inch by inch, freezing nearly every moment to check her surroundings. If she could just find Wiscotte, they could escape back to the road. Lena had never fought anyone before, not really, beyond wrestling with some of her friends for fun. One of her neighbors had served as a soldier in his youth and he taught her how to hold a blade a few winters ago, joking that it would help her if any fool merchant refused to pay. Still, Lena felt a calm wash over her as she placed her feet on the ground. Certainty began to replace fear. 

She knelt down and peered beneath the cart. Across the way, she could see the two Dalish beside their small fire. One was resting, sprawled out and snoring on the ground, and the other focused on something in his hands. Lena watched him yawn and stretch until she was sure he was more preoccupied with staying awake instead of keeping guard. He never once glanced back at the cart, where Wiscotte had been left, sitting against the front wheel. 

Lena crept closer and closer to her brother, her eyes fixed on the two elves until she thought she knew every strand of their hair. She paused when she finally reached Wiscotte, glancing down to where he sat. His head was hanging heavily against his chest, and she could just make out the thin rope that tied his wrists to the spokes behind him and his ankles together. He seemed very small. 

He flinched at her touch but, thank the Maker, he didn’t make a sound, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. Lena tried to smile for him, like they were simply sneaking out while their parents were asleep in the next room, and gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. Wiscotte’s face was covered in sweat and his skin looked pale, but he gave her a small nod, and so she set to work on the rope around his legs. 

It gave way easily to her blade. Up close, she realized it was hardly more than twine, something they wouldn’t even trust to hold their bolts of cloth. If Wiscotte had dared to escape, he probably could’ve snapped the knot with his own strength. She moved up to his wrists and cut him loose, wondering why the Dalish would trust such flimsy tools for their raid.

Wiscotte moved slowly, but he managed to stand up without drawing attention. Lena grabbed his hand and started taking careful, small steps backwards, knowing that if they could just make it to the far side of the cart, they could disappear into the woods. They could make a run for it. In only a few moments, they’d be racing back towards the road and safety and home. 

The old mare whinnied. 

Lena’s felt like all the air was ripped out of her when she saw the dozing elf lift his head towards the noise. “Arlen, look!” 

“Run!” She gasped, pulling hard on her brother’s hand. He went stumbling past, and she turned to follow. 

“Wait!” The guard, Arlen, shouted, “Stop, or I put an arrow in your back!”

Lena yelped as something whizzed through the air over her shoulder. She flinched, tumbling back and crashing into the side of the cart. Wiscotte had fallen to his knees to avoid the shot, and slowly rose to his feet again with his hands raised. The guard was stepping closer to them now, another arrow already nocked in his bow, and his companion had jumped up from his slumber, trailing behind with a sword in hand.

She blinked back the tears that were forming, her stomach heavy with rage. She still had the dagger, but with the bow pointed at their chests, it didn’t even seem like she had the chance to use it. They had been inches away from disappearing into the night. Inches away from going back to their lives and now it seemed like they would be dead before the sun rose. 

“Take it,” Lena said, turning towards the Dalish, trying to keep her hold on the dagger’s hilt even as her hand trembled. “You can take all of our goods. They’re valuable. It’ll be easy to sell. Just let us be on our way.”

“We need more than that,” growled the elf with the sword.

“More? You mean us? You need two traders from the backwoods?” Lena heard her voice climbing until it was a shout. “Andraste’s mercy, our family crushes bugs for a living—”

“We’re tired of running!” Arlen shook his bow as each word erupted from his body. He took a breath, steeling himself, then said in a quieter voice, “We’re ready to strike. Today, nameless citizens like you, but soon, every noble in Orlais will feel our grasp.”

Somewhere behind her, Wiscotte scoffed, though Lena didn’t risk glancing back in his direction, “Looks like we are cursed.”

“We’re not your pawns,” Lena pushed herself off the cart, raising the dagger to point at the elves. “I’m not going to let use us.”

“Either you come with us, or we’ll just kill you now. Your bodies would be enough to strike fear in the halls of Orlais’ palaces.” 

Lena wished there was something she could do, but she was ready to face death if that was the only option. She swallowed hard and readied herself to charge.

“Hold,” called a voice, striking into the night like thunder. Lena nearly fell forward from the shock of it, glancing up to see a new group of Dalish approaching from the trees across the clearing. With the camp fire between them, Lena couldn’t make out many details, until one stepped closer, holding a staff held across his body. His voice filled the air as he asked, “What is happening here?”

“This shem attacked us!” Answered Arlen, glancing towards the newcomers but keeping his arrow fixed on Lena.

“You lie!” Lena shouted, her voice sharp as she reeled from his audacity. She dropped the hand that grasped her dagger, stepping forward to jab a finger in the air towards Arlen like he had forgotten his chores, “They raided us! They kidnapped my brother!” 

The Dalish with the sword moved back, bringing his blade up, “Don’t listen to her, hahren.”

“Enough. Lower your weapons,” The mage commanded as he walked around the camp. Lena thought he stalked like a cat, each step taken with certainty and grace. She watched Arlen and his companion hesitate, then obey, and finally let her own dagger fall to her side. Behind her, she heard Wiscotte lean against the cart, groaning a little, like he was going to vomit then and there.

The mage said something in elven, hushed and stern, that made the two raiders walk back to the group, then he approached Lena. His eyes were sharp and light, even in the dim light of the fire, and Lena was surprised to see that his pale face was unmarked, unlike every other Dalish she had known.

“Leave you cart. You and your brother are free to go. We will do many things in war, but we will never bind beings against their will.” 

Lena’s body was still tense and sweaty from the confrontation, and she felt like a nug that had been snatched from the jaws of a mabari standing before this elf. He carried a solemn air with him, something that made everything seem richer - maybe it was his magic. Lena got the sense that he knew many things, many secrets, so she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her, “That’s all, then?” 

He peered at her, as if noticing something about her appearance for the first time. His expression hardly changed, just a small wrinkle in his brow, and she got the impression that he rarely betrayed his thoughts. “Were you expecting something else?”

“No, messere,” said Wiscotte. He grabbed Lena’s arm, and she flinched at his touch. She realized she had forgotten he was there, and there was a flash of shame that rushed through her at the thought. “Sister, let’s go.” 

Lena hesitated. She knew she should leave, now, before anything changed, while there was still time to return to her life. Here, though, with this mage, she felt like she was standing at the edge of a strange unknown. She found it… exciting.

The elf had been watching her, as she stood there in quiet indecision. He tilted his head and smiled, “Tell me something. What do you believe in - fate or chance?”

She took a deep breath and sighed. She thought about her father, how he would moan about a family curse, and her mother, who was so skilled but never dreamed of another life. Even Wiscotte, clutching her arm, had always talked about how they much fun they would have, living the trader’s life together. Everyone in her world had only seen the road as it was laid out in front of them. Lena met the mage’s gaze and said, “I’d walk my own path, if I was given the choice.”

The elf nodded, then called to the Dalish that lingered by the camp fire. “They will see your brother to the nearest village. Come with me. We have much to discuss.”


	2. Chapter 2

9:70

Even after all this time, it was easy for Lena to get lost in Val Royeaux. The hats, the perfumes, the way that no one would bother to give you a second look if you wore the wrong outfit - it was a perfect city to see without being seen. She strolled through the marketplace with an easy gait, knowing that her green dress was just the right shade to draw nothing more than a disapproving glance from the people around her. It was a small comfort, given the itch of the lace cuffs and the way the empire waist seemed to slowly creep up into her armpits. 

In the two years that had passed since she left her old life, she had learned there were many things to hate about the Empress and her cruel hold on the people, but Lena especially begrudged her latest fascination with such uncomfortable styles. When Lena came to Val Royeaux, she had imagined it would be more surprise, more knives, more heart-stopping nights like the one that brought her to the Dalish. Taking up the mantle of the Red Jenny on behalf of the elves felt like stepping into a dragon’s nest, something wild and terrifying. In just a few short days, however, she realized that much of the work would take another form - watching, waiting, and, above all, listening to people who working up the nerve to speak up for the first time in their lives. 

Lena walked down the street until she spotted a familiar alleyway. It was quieter here, away from the bustle of the vendors, filled instead with the light murmur of conversations and the touch of stringed instruments. Somewhere, a soprano voice was singing. There were many places like this in Val Royeaux, where each business in the row catered to some kind of pleasure - touch or taste or both - and this stretch in particular was known for long afternoon romps. The city’s upper class liked to spend hours here, feasting on a whole flight of delights. Usually, there wasn’t much for her in places like this - there wasn’t much use in knowing what tickled a petty noble on a slow day - but it was one of the rare locations where Orlesians would ask their servants to wait outside, especially if they were slipping away for an unplanned visit. A perfect place to share a word with someone without anyone bothering to notice.

On the steps of The Tea & Tug, she saw two elves wearing gilded masks idling, bags stuffed with market goods forgotten at their feet, just as she had hoped. One leaned back against the stairs, his eyes glazed over like he was lost in thought, and the other was folded over to rest his head in his lap. They seemed like they had already been waiting for ages with little hope of relief. She couldn’t be sure if their masks represented the right sort of bird - sometimes it felt like half the houses in Orlais used the same kind of bird in their masks - but she had to take the chance.

“Having fun?” Lena asked as she approached the steps. The elves jumped at the sound of her voice, and the one that had been dozing scrambled to his feet.

“Beg your pardon, messere,” he said, bowing slightly once he found his balance. 

“No need to apologize. I’m a friend.” She replied with a small curtsy, nudging one of the sleeves of her dress just enough to flash the red ribbon she had tied around her wrist. Part of her always felt foolish for using such an obvious trick, but people seemed to like the thrill of catching a hint of something secret. It was a small price to pay to help someone work up the courage to share. 

The elf’s eyes went wide, and he glanced around like he was about to steal his first piece of fruit from a market stall. Finally, he waved for his companion to stand up, whispering, “It’s her. It’s the Red Jenny!”

“I heard you had a story to tell me,” Lena stepped in closer, maneuvering around the bags until she was close enough to smell the syrupy odor wafting out from behind the door of The Tea & Tug. “Best be quick.”

The second elf nodded, and then a tumble of words gushed from his mouth, “My cousin - his master is a Heraldist. He liked the scandal of it all. Used to say it was a good trick for finding new lovers.” 

He leaned in closer, “But, the past few weeks, he’s been… quiet. Had all of the servants busy preparing for an important guest - wouldn’t say who. Now, he’s said no one is allowed in or out until tomorrow evening, in case the visitor arrives early. They’ve been locked up like this for more than a week!”

The other elf raised his eyebrows, “Some of the people heard him bragging that he’d be the new Divine by the winter. Or at least have an invitation to every party for the next age.”

Lena kept her face frozen as they spoke, listening not just to their words but the way they said them. They were excited and scared, and their voices trembled, like they eager for someone to make use of their news, if only so it would be more than a nagging thought in their minds. She had been hearing a lot about the Cult of the Herald lately, but it was usually gossip used to undermine rivals or thrill the curious. Most of the time, it felt like a rumor started to distract people from the stories coming out of the Dales. This was probably more of the same. Still, she watched as they talked about where to find the servant’s entrance to the cousin’s house, how they worried about word getting out that they were whispering, and how it seemed everyone was growing suspicious of anything with pointed ears - would their master think they were spies and send them to the gallows? Even if it was meaningless to her, it was important to them, and they thought they were risking a great deal to share it with her. Lena couldn’t dismiss it. 

“Thank you for this,” she said, reaching up her sleeve to undo the ribbon around her wrist. She pressed it into the hands of the closest elf, looking him straight in the eye, “You are a true friend. If you ever need anything, just leave this where I can find it.”

With that, she turned and went to blend into the crowds meandering the market place. There were many more stop to make, many more secrets to hear, many more people to assure that they were heard and trusted, even if it felt like the entire city was only casting wary glances their way.

-

The next night, Lena would try very hard to remember the looks of validation on the servants’ faces as she crouched on a rooftop, legs cramping, and waited for signs of - well, anything worthwhile. She had many friends in this quarter of the city, a place known to be filled with the disappointing sons and daughters of great houses. Her perch was a summer home that was empty of everyone but a few servants, each of them a friend, and it was just a few doors down from her target, giving her a clear view of the estate’s servant entrance. It seemed as though that was were her luck would end for the night, as everything had been terribly dull since she climbed up to her post. 

She tried to pass the time by thinking about who the “important guest” might be or what they might bring. Lena smirked as she imagined a dashing Fereldan scholar, carrying some valuable documents that proved, once and for all, that Andraste had a Mabari. It was exactly the sort of thing an Orlesian would love to hang on his wall so that he could casually mention it to every house guest and drink up their scandalized reactions. She had moved on to a lengthy daydream about a surface dwarf claiming to have stacks of bricks from Haven itself, from the very first war room of the Inquisition!, when she thought she heard a hush of footsteps and whispers from the alleyway below. 

Though her calf muscles were tense and tingling, Lena slowly leaned over the edge of her perch to peer downwards. It was a narrow, poorly lit alley, and the softest noise echoed up to her ears; it didn’t help that the group wandering up the way was nervous and chatty. Slowly, she moved from the flat surface of the rooftop to the sloping tile below. Since it was one of the more modest parts of the city, it was a gentle angle, not like the steep and intricate buildings of the summer bazaar, and Lena was soon at the very edge. 

There were five of them. Three wore gray robes, cheap things that looked like a costume, and the other two, young men, wore light coats, the sort of thing her brother might wear when they traveled. It didn’t sound like any of them spoke with Orlesian accents and they didn’t walk like they were familiar with the area. None of them seemed quite like an “important guest,” but it was more than she had expected from idle gossip. Balancing her weight carefully, Lena swung her bow from her back into her hands, just in case.

The group came to a stop at the servant’s entrance she had been watching all night, and one of the robed figures knocked at the door. The two men lingered at the back of the pack, the one with thick dark hair whispering quietly to the blonde. Lena wished they would step into the light of a window or light a lantern, anything to give her a better look at their faces or reveal any heraldry on their dress, but they stayed clustered near the door.

It made it easy for the attacker to ambush them. Lena couldn’t help but jump as the door suddenly swung open, reaching for an arrow and nocking it out as she rose to her feet, almost without thinking. A masked figure burst from the entrance, striking out at the closest robed figures. Two fell, nearly instantly, and the assassin’s blades glinted in the dim light as they moved to the third. Lena found her footing and aimed for the attacker, taking a deep breath to still herself as she studied her target’s quick movements. The assassin stabbed one of their blades into the face of their third victim, their arms moving and their body twisting with a dancer’s grace. When they turned to face the two remaining men, Lena decided to take a chance, lifting her bow slightly before letting an arrow loose. 

Fortunately, her hunch was correct. It seemed that assassins in Val Royeaux, like everyone else, valued style over practicality. Lena’s arrow found its mark, flying through the assassin’s hood and into their unguarded skull, sending their body crashing forward to the ground with a loud thud. She swung her bow onto her back, watching the two men as they stared, stunned, at the massacre at their feet. They didn’t expect this, not any of this, but they didn’t run like men who had never faced death before. Lena whistled, waving as they glanced up in her direction.

“Meet me at the fountain in the square,” she called down to them, pointing north. Without waiting for their response, Lena turned and scurried back up the rooftop. Whether they followed her instructions or disappeared into the night made little difference, but a part of her hoped that the night was just getting started.

-

Like the rest of the quarter, the square had the appearances of greatness with little of the substance: there were manicured trees lining the walkways, perfectly square cobblestones artfully laid in the ground below, but it was empty and dark. The shops had long since shuttered their doors and no one idled here, not when other parts of the city offered prettier sights and sounds. There was no music or laughter or scent, just the murmuring of the fountain at its center, with the requisite lions and marble. It was the sort of thing you couldn’t miss even if you would never remember its details. Lena had chatted with some of her friends here before, between errands or as they rushed from one appointment to another. They liked to meet under the shadow of that largest lion statue, its size reassuring to people that felt exposed, so she headed that way to check for the men. 

They were trying to keep their voices low, but their whispers were thick with urgency. She took them in as she approached. The shorter one had a lithe build and light, clear skin. If he dressed right and did something with his mess of blonde hair, he could pass for a noble, especially with his defined jawline and the way he stood, even now, like he had something important to announce. The other was sturdy, like he spent every day hauling crops across a field, with thick dark hair and brown skin. Even in the poor light, Lena could read the worry on his face as he spoke to the other man, and there was something endearing about spotting that kind of sincerity in this neglected corner of Val Royeaux. 

“…should keep moving,” he was saying as she approached. When they noticed her, he turned, crossing his arms across his chest and stepping slightly to put his body between her and his companion.

“You’ll be safe here for now,” Lena said, smiling, thinking about all the tricks that she knew to put people at ease. She let her hands dangle at her sides so that they could see that she was unarmed. “My guess is that it’ll take hours before anyone realizes that things went awry.”

“Your guess?” He said, his brow furrowing. “That inspires a lot of faith.”

Lena let the smile drop from her face. It was clear that neither of the men were in the mood for a sweet, gentle charm. Maybe honesty might make things go quicker, she wondered. “One assassin for an entire traveling party? It was clear no one expected any trouble. There’s no hurry when there’s such confidence.” 

“Thank you,” said the shorter man, gently nudging his companion aside before he had a chance to reply. He bowed his head and added, “You saved our lives.”

“Gratitude is nice,” Lena said with a shrug, “Answers would be better. Who are you?”

He shook his head, glancing over to the other man, “No one. We’re just brothers looking for work.”

She scoffed at that. “Oh, is that all?” 

Lena put her hands on her hips and gave each of the men a quick look, casting her eyes from their shoes to their faces like she was comparing fabrics at a stall, “You aren’t dressed like soldiers or tradesmen, and it didn’t look like you were traveling with many goods or tools.” 

She smirked, “Also, you don’t look anything alike, so, if your brothers, it can’t be blood that binds you. Some shared secret, maybe? Something that the Chantry wants to keep secret?” 

“The Chantry?” Asked the shorter man. He was trying to keep his face from betraying any reaction to her assessment, even though his gaze seemed to soften, like he was curious to see where her theories might go next.

“Neither of you seems the type to threaten a noble’s land or marriage. In Val Royeaux, if the nobles don’t want you dead, that just leaves the Chantry.”

“He’s the son of the Herald of Andraste,” said the taller man, matter-of-factly.

“Geoffroy!” The shorter man snapped, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“What? She was nearly there. I figured we might as well save the time.” 

His companion made a disgusted noise and turned from them both, moving a few paces away to grip the marble railing around the fountain and stare into its waters. 

“I’m sorry, did you say he’s… the son of the Herald?” Lena studied him by the faint light, but he seemed as normal as any other person. Every story that she had heard about the Inquisition featured ancient monsters, strange glowing runes, or some other impossible thing - this was just a man. 

“I don’t believe you,” she said finally. 

The shorter man glanced at her, the hint of a smirk on his lips, and the other, Geoffroy, laughed, throwing back his head for a deep bellow. His smile softened his whole face, and it was so broad that it seemed to scrunch up his beard to his thick eyebrows. Lena thought he looked like he had just spent the night drinking at a tavern instead of running for his life - probably the stress of day finally settling onto his nerves - and she could sense his companion’s annoyance emanating from his body as surely as open flame. She watched as Geoffroy tried to get a hold of himself, even more baffled that they thought they could pass themselves off as brothers.

Finally, he finally wiped the tears from his eyes and sighed. “And that’s why we never tell anyone. The only people who believe us try to kill us or end up dead.”

“What do people call you then? Your Holiness? Or Majesty?” Lena moved to stand next to the shorter man, trying to sense if there was anything… especially different about him. She leaned against the cool marble of the fountain and studied his face again.

“My name is Revas,” he answered. He sighed, “Even if you don’t believe us, I think we could use more of your help.” 

She nodded, “They will hunt for you, once they learn the truth. My friends will send them the wrong way, but the Chantry hates to look the fool. Their agents will cover every inch of the city to find you.”

“Then we should leave. I knew coming here was the wrong thing - didn’t I say it was a bad idea? That we shouldn’t be following self-proclaimed cultists around Thedas?” 

Revas lifted a hand to cut off Geoffroy’s rising voice, keeping his gaze fixed on Lena. He had gentle brown eyes, and they looked very tired. “Could you get us out of the city then?”

Lena nodded again, even before she started to think about what it would take or how it could be done. She hadn’t been around such earnest, unassuming people in a long while, and their story, however ludicrous, had been enough to leave a pile of bodies in an alleyway. At the very least, maybe they had more stories like this that they could share with her, something else she could use to bother her targets in the city.

She thought about her hiding places, the vendors that owed her favors, the tavern owners that wouldn’t give her a second glance - all the arrows that she had carefully carved and filled her quiver with since becoming Jenny. None of it seemed enough to block out the Chantry’s gaze, not for very long. They would have to leave tonight and go somewhere that wasn’t within the reach of the Hands of the Divine.

“If what you say is true,” Lena pushed herself up, excited by a sudden idea, “Wouldn’t that make you elf-blooded?”

“Is that a problem?” Geoffroy cut in, his voice low.

Lena shook her head, “Of coarse not. It’s just… I know the tales about the Inquisitor, and ‘Revas’ doesn’t sound Orlesian.”

“It’s not,” Revas said. He cast a look at Geffroy, giving him a little nod that seemed to melt away all the tension from his body. “It’s Elvish. My mother- well, you said you heard the tales.”

“I think I know where to take you then,” Lena said with a smile. She waved for the two men to follow her and started east, where she knew some lazy guardsmen that could let them out of the city for an easy price. After that, it would be simple enough to find passage across the Waking Sea to the Dales, although Lena wasn’t sure what would happen once they made it there.


End file.
